Some Corner of A Foreign Field'
by shanpendragon
Summary: Trapped in a loveless marriage and a world at war, Sherlock Holmes meets Molly Hooper in a Military Hospital after being injured by a Shell explosion, and she slowly changes his life. Crossover with Parade's End. Really slow build Sherlolly, really OOC and dubious historical accuracy. (World War 1 AU)
1. Chapter 1

A/N - So, um hey! *Wave* This here be a crossover with Parade's End. So, basically, Sherlock is Christopher Tietjens and Molly Valentine, but not really. It's going to be a slow build, believe me... Really slow build.

Surprisingly, I own neither Sherlock or Parade's End. This is purely for fun and remembering The Great War.

* * *

November, 1914.

_Pain. _

That was the only fact he could comprehend. The right side of his body screamed as if on fire, and his head felt full of cotton wool.

_That sound, like thunder magnified by a thousand._

Sherlock hadn't had time to react, or even make peace with the fact that those could have been his last moments. The terrific song of the shell was simultaneous with the explosion, and then everything went black. He had been at war for 3 months, and every day he'd managed to avoid injury. Obviously he wasn't stupid enough to believe he was invincible, it was only a matter of time before something happened. This war would take everything from everyone before it was done.

_Where am I? Military hospital, obvious. Strong smell of disinfectant, agonised screams of the injured and extremely suggestive fact that I am in the need of medical attention. About a mile from the front. Can still hear shell fire quite loudly. God, don't the German's sleep?_

His eyes opened to see a grey brick tunnel, light streaming through a hole in the bomb damaged wall. Looking down at his body, he noticed they'd removed his most likely destroyed uniform and dressed him in a pair of white cotton pajamas. His usually slight frame was bulked up by layer upon layer of crisp white bandages. He pushed his hair from his eyes, still not quite used to the shorter style he'd been forced to have. His head remained uninjured and uncovered, and luckily apart from a slight headache he didn't seem to have any mental damage.

The tunnel was relatively quiet, populated only by five other men. Officers by the look of them, all in various states of injury and fast asleep.

_Oh, stupid! Officer's Ward. Since when did I become so slow?_

A petite nurse stood wrapping bandages in the shadow covered corner, her long light brown hair pulled up in a slightly messy bun under her white bonnet, indicating a long shift. She hadn't noticed he was awake, suggesting they hadn't expected him to rejoin the world of the conscious any time soon.

_How long have I been here?_

_Stiffness in limbs indicates at least 3 days, however could also be due the overwhelming amount of bandages covering my right arm and leg. At least there both still there, and the pain suggests I still have complete use of them. Some of the boys in my regiment weren't so lucky. _

"Hello." He called to the woman, his voice croaky from dehydration and lack of use.

"Oh, you're awake!" She exclaimed, quickly running to his bedside and causing her bonnet to fall off.

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Now, how long have I been here?"

"I- Sorry." The Nurse stuttered, her face going red enough to match the cross on her apron. "You've been here for 3 days after being caught in a shell explosion. You were incredibly lucky, the Surgeon was able to remove all the debris from your skin and the burns you suffered are healing well, William."

"What did you call me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Major Holmes. It's just, I normally find that using the wounded first names makes them more comfortable."

"No, it's fine. I haven't gone by my first name since I was 11. I much prefer Sherlock."

"Oh, well it's nice to meet you, Sherlock." She smiled, holding out her hand for him to shake with his uninjured one.

"Yes, Nurse...?"

"Hooper. Molly Hooper."

"It's nice to meet you Nurse Hooper."

"I much prefer Molly."

"Nice to meet you Molly." Sherlock smiled, finally returning the handshake.

_23. Single. Father dead three years, mother still hasn't gotten over it. Youngest of four, two brothers in the Army and a married sister. Suffragette, no Suffragist. Fascination with medicine and the human body. _

"You won't be here long, your brother is coming personally to escort you to London." She smiled, believing that would make him happy.

"Ah, wonderful." He said flippantly. "Good old Mycroft coming to save me from the war he started."

"What?" Molly gasped.

"Oh, just ignore that." Sherlock said. "Is there anything else, Nurse Hooper?"

"There have been letters for you." She replied, gesturing to the two envelopes on bedside table.

_John and Mycroft. _

"I'll leave you to read them, Sir." Molly uttered, picking up the empty water jug as she left.

Sherlock debated which of the letters to open first. Obviously, to one from Mycroft was a telegram to inform him of his going home. John's would most likely be their monthly letter outlining how they were getting on, however the stamp marked it as being sent from London. It would have been written before Sherlock was injured, so John had somehow been sent home. The one from Mycroft was more likely to cause anger, so decided to read that one first.

_"Sherlock, _

_I am personally coming to escort you home. You will stay with our parents until fully recovered. Both Hamish and Mrs Hudson will be there, your wife will not. I have also invited John. _

_Mycroft."_

It was simple, as was his brothers style. Knowing he would have to stay with his parents for an extended period was unfortunate, but knowing his son and John would be there made it more than tolerable.

Even better was the fact that he wouldn't have to deal with Sylvia.

He had met the woman on a train when visiting his parents country estate, and while under the illusion that Miss Satterthwaite possessed more than average intelligence, and the influence of a tremendous amount of Cocaine, Sherlock had engaged in a considerably passionate 'dinner' date that surprisingly hadn't disturbed the entire train. Despite the beliefs of his family and best friend, Sherlock was not inexperienced in the 'art of love.'

After exiting the train, Sherlock banished all thought of her from his mind. He solved an increasing amount of cases for Scotland Yard, while hardly leaving his residence at Baker Street. Also, he refused all contact with his brother. Sherlock viewed both of these as achievements of the highest order.

However, three months after his escapade with Sylvia, she arrived at 221B and informed him that she was pregnant, but didn't know whether the child was his. That was why he stood next to her in front of an altar, despite his belief that all religion was preposterous. She was putting on an innocent front, clothed in white silk and blushing as Sherlock was forced to take her hand. Half an hour later she was Mrs Holmes, a name Sherlock believed only his mother would possess, and placing a chaste kiss against the Consulting Detectives lips.

He had already decided during the marriage he would not allow himself to be manipulated by the woman he'd been forced to make his wife. She had succeeded in making him marry her, and that was to be Sylvia Holmes's last victory.

When the boy was born, Sherlock had been worried that the child was not his. However, all doubt vanished the moment the Midwife had placed Hamish William Sherlock Holmes in the Detectives arms. With his raven curls and eyes that refused to remain one colour, there was not doubting his parentage. As he grew, the boy resembled Sherlock more and more, with only the barest trace of his mother. That seemed fitting, considering the lack of impact she had on his life. Hell, John was more of a parent to the boy than Sylvia was.

_John's been wounded, too. Still able to write, but bad enough to be sent home. Mycroft is obviously looking out for him, but it keeping his involvement quiet._

As much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft was a good brother sometimes.

John was a Soldier before The Great War began, fighting in the Second Anglo-Boer War from 1899-1902. He had been shot in the shoulder then contracted Typhoid Fever, causing him to be sent home. Sherlock was just starting out as a Consulting Detective when he'd been introduced to John by Michael Stamford, and the pair had started sharing rooms in Baker Street soon after. John had someone Sherlock could rely on in the years after they met, a confidant he could trust with anything. It was John he went to when he found out Sylvia was pregnant, believing his friend to be more experienced in those sort of situations. John hadn't been very pleased when Sherlock said that was why he went to him.

_"Sherlock, _

_Probably easier to begin this letter by saying I'm no longer at the Front, I am in London. I've been shot in the left shoulder, and sent home when I was fit enough. It's healing nicely, thanks to an old friend from St. Barts who happened to be in the Military Hospital. _

_I'm fairly certain I'll be able to return to the war when I'm fit, if the it's all still going on then. According to you, it will be and I would be stupid to ignore you and your bloody massive intellect. _

_This morning, I returned to Baker Street and saw Hamish and Mrs Hudson. I swear, that boy looks more and more like you everyday. He shares your "I can tell your entire life with one look" expression, however with him it isnt so annoying. It's not just looks though, the moment I walked through the door he deduced exactly where I was injured that I'd had a bacon sandwich for breakfast._

_He misses you, Sherlock. You are the only parent the boy has, Sylvia hasn't been to see him since you left. According to Mrs Hudson, she is at her families Country Estate, but little else is known. Well, it's your wife, so a lot is known, but none of it the truth._

_I'm afraid this letter must be short, as I have little time before the Doctor comes to check up on me. However, I hope the back of this letter makes up for that. _

_John."_

Sherlock turned the letter over, and what he saw made his heart leap. John had got Hamish to draw him something, and the four year old had decided on an anatomically correct heart labeled in handwriting better suited to a ten year old. Sherlock smiled at how much the boy had learnt in the few months since the war had started. At the bottom, he'd signed it "To Daddy, love Hamish William Sherlock Holmes."

He was still smiling when Molly returned with a full jug of water.

"Is that from your son?" She asked, voice small as she stared at the drawing.

_She didn't realise I was married. _

"Yes. Hamish, he's four."

"He must miss you. And your- Your wife must be worried about you." The Nurse stuttered, staring at the floor rather than at her patient.

"Oh, I doubt Sylvia cares." Sherlock recounted, still staring at the signature from Hamish. "She's barely noticed my existence after I gave her the child, she much prefers men who cannot think of anything but their love for her. The letter is from my friend, John Watson, not my wife. Do you have any coffee?"

"Yes, Sir. Would you like some?"

Sherlock groaned as he sat up on his bed, trying to be gentle to avoid worsening the already terrible pain. He really needed to learn how to not feel it.

"Black, two sugars please. I'll be here, trying not to die of boredom."

* * *

_So, how was that?_


	2. Chapter 2

_aA/N - _So, here's the next chapter. I had fun writing it, so I hope you have fun reading it.

Also, thanks to everyone who has viewed, favourited, followed or commented.

Hamish will be in next chapter, promise.

* * *

_"If I should die, think only this of me: _

_That there's some corner of a foreign field _

_That is forever England." - The Soldier, by Rupert Brook. _

* * *

November, 1914

Something was wrong with his Mind Palace.

The ornate staircase crumbled beneath him, refusing any entry to the rooms below. Wallpaper peeled from the walls, floor boards cracked and sunlight streamed through Shell damaged brick. He tried to get through, but always a block would appear. It was making him more and more exhausted, and all attempts were in vain. He would always end up there.

_Redbeard. Come on boy, where are you? Don't make me go there... Please. _

The Trench, a hell on earth burned into his brain for eternity. The mud beneath stiff boots, thick like glue in the waterlogged space. Water reaching your chest in some places, never being dry. Rats and flees in limitless attendance, a pest beaten only by the enemy. A Godforsaken hole, filled with the constant smell of human suffering, the bitter scent of fear, synonymous with the sound of life. So easy to take away, a single second was all it took. Another Ghost wandering Belgium. Trying to get home.

The moon stood bright in the sky, as if determined to shine despite the unprecedented horror under it's watch.

But still, the noise. Like ripping wet calico times by a thousand, fired a thousand times, determined to decimate everything in their path. The Shells didn't discriminate. They would kill friend as well as foe. A scalpel, wielded with precision, and without remorse.

_Come on, Redbeard. Please, boy. I can't lose you again. _

Still nothing.

_What's wrong with me?_

Sherlock emerged, his breath heavy and throat dry. The bitter taste of the abominable coffee still lingered on his tongue, making him feel sick and lightheaded.

_Forehead clammy, covered in wet cloth. Someone is holding my hand. Woman. Young. Nurse. Ah, Molly._

"Sherlock, are you alright?" She begged, her small voice filled with worry.

"I'm fine." He answered with his voice low, ripping his hand from her grasp and moving the cloth from his forehead. His skin screamed. It was as if having million upon million needles pressed into his skin every second, all over his body. "Have you got any Morphine?"

"You've already had the maximum dose."

"Well, it's not working. Get me more."

"Sherlock- I- I can't." She uttered, slowly moving away.

"Then what exactly is the point of you?" He screamed, causing some of the other men on the ward to wake up from their slumber.

Molly practically ran out of the tunnel, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

_If I haven't got my Mind Palace, what am I? _

_Some exceptionally observant freak, known only for marrying the most successful adulteress in England. _

Sylvia knew she could not keep her 'activities' a secret from her husband, so revelled in it. It promoted her quest to slowly torment him. Even when he joined the Army she hadn't reduced her provocation.

It was woman against man, that was the original war.

* * *

August, 1914

_This is almost certainly not going to be fun. _

Sherlock walked into 221B, a sense of foreboding falling over him. Sylvia was home, but Mrs Hudson, John and Hamish had gone out. That was good, he didn't want Hamish to hear the conversation that was going to occur.

He took the stairs at his usual two at a time, before entering the empty flat. It was clean, with all case files and experiments neatly tidied away, as it usually was when Sylvia decided to grace the building with her presence.

"William!" He heard her shout from their bedroom. Sherlock cringed at the use of his first name, knowing it to be a sign of how this conversation was going to go. Sylvia only used 'William' when she was deliberately trying to torment him, so she used it most of the time.

"Sylvia." Sherlock replied, walking in to his room.

His wife was led in the bed, the cream silk cover perfectly straight and uncreased over her body.

_Eager for sympathy. Putting on a front of being heartbroken by the war, more likely heartbroken about inability to torment me or any other poor men she's set her sight on._

"What have you done?" She gasped, staring at both his hair and the papers in his hand with a shocked expression.

Sherlock ran his hand through his now shorter curls before sitting on the bed.

"For God's sake, even with your limited level of intelligence I thought it was obvious. I've signed up." He replied, voice exasperated.

"Well, I think you're a fool." Sylvia announced, crossing her arms and refusing to look at her husband. "Why can't you just stay here and continue your one man crusade against crime. What good do you think you can do out there, you'll be shot in an instant you great lump?"

"The War Office was going to send me out anyway. They wanted me in Intelligence, but I made Mycroft put me on the front." He replied, ignoring the usual level of insult.

"Go, then. Add your little bit to the suffering." She muttered, still refusing to meet his gaze. "Even if it's only your own."

_I'd rather be on the Front than here with you. _

He didn't reply, or speak his mind. Sylvia reveled in attempting to elicit an emotional response from him, and she wasn't going to win. She would remain, with her hobble skirts and social niceties, while Sherlock would go to face Hell on Earth.

"I can't sleep in the night now because the pain is worse in the dark." She continued. "It spreads into every corner. Black, like ink. Printer's ink. Newspaper's dripping, hate and lies, every day..."

Sherlock wanted her to stop, the rant becoming close to hysteria. He could barely deal with her when she was in a good mood, but when she was like this their relationship became impossible. He moved his hand forward, attempting a comforting gesture.

"No, don't touch me now, when it's too late!" She shrieked, recoiling from his touch.

_Now is too late? She's the one bats her eyelashes at a man and ends up running off to France. I got the blame for that. Insipid people, believing that me chasing women had led Sylvia to have enough, when really it was the opposite. _

_There may have been a chance, at first. As the mother of my child, I held some affection for her. But she put an end to that almost immediately._

John didn't understand why Sherlock didn't divorce, but it was quite simple. He wouldn't do that to Hamish. It was worse for him to have a whore for a mother, than a 'wrong 'un' for a father. The little boy didn't deserve that, and Sherlock would do anything for him. He would gladly stay in a loveless marriage, gladly face all the German guns for his little boy.

"I'm going to wait from John and Hamish." Sherlock announced, rising from the bed to enter the living room.

"Yes, do! You're such a paragon of honourable behaviour, William. You're the cruelest man I know!"

"You don't know me at all." He declared, slamming the door of the room.


End file.
